The Doctor's Doctor
by Kooro
Summary: Set after the explosion at the slaughterhouse: Holmes goes in disguise to check on his surviving friend. He just didn't expect Watson to be awake... or to want his help. A bromance between two friends.


**After watching the ****Sherlock Holmes**** movie – and then reading some good fanfics – I knew I just had to write of my own. Being someone who absolutely loves the relationship of friendship between two people couldn't pass up the opportunity to write about the bromance that bounds Holmes and Watson together. **

The Doctor's Doctor

Watson was alive.

It was all he could think about.

John Watson, his dear friend and partner was still alive despite being hit head-on by a massive explosion that could just as easily have killed him as spared him.

Sherlock Holmes was lucky to be alive too. And he had to admit that the living presence of Irene Adler was also a relief but all that was thanks to Watson. He had been able to warn Holmes and Irene in time before the explosion to ensure that the two would survive.

But when that first explosion went off and Holmes saw his friend fly forward with sharp pieces of wood flying after him and then being tossed casually to the side as another explosion hit him, Holmes could only stand and stare at the place where his friend had been standing only moments before.

Then survival instincts kicked in and Holmes was too busy protecting Irene to go back and find Watson. The action tore his heart in two.

The next thing he knew he was being pulled up from the ground. Holmes had immediately latched on to the other person, praying it was Watson coming to his rescue once again with that disapproving gaze and a roll of the eyes.

But it wasn't Watson.

Still, the police officer had given Holmes heart-lifting news.

Watson was alive.

But how was Holmes going to see him?

From the little he had gathered – and remembered – from the officer, he was a wanted man now. And wanted men didn't stroll casually down the street. No, he needed a disguise.

Avoiding the major streets and stumbling through back alleys, Holmes managed to make it back to his home. He entered anonymously using the secret trapdoor he had installed years ago out of paranoia. He knew it would come in handy someday.

It was here in his own room – or rather, their own room – that he woke up.

Holmes stirred and rose stiffly into a sitting position, his tired bones creaking in protest. A few scratches stung his face and his back was sore.

He could faintly smell the remaining essence of burnt cotton from his singed coat and the smoke that still clung to him. Gravel and splinters of wood shook loose from his clothes: remnants from where he had lain on the cold ground after the explosions.

He knew he was a mess without even needing a mirror. But, seeing as he usually looked like a mess, this fact concerned him very little.

The main thought on his mind was Watson.

The doctor had no doubt been wounded. And if the wanted order was – hopefully – only on Holmes' head, then Watson was probably already in safe hands by now. And where was safer than the house of his soon-to-be-wife?

So, to Mary's house Holmes would go to find Watson. He wanted to see his living friend for himself.

But he couldn't go as he was now.

He would go in disguise. And what better disguise than that of a doctor? After being in an explosion, Watson would surely need one. The servants of Mary's household would not turn Holmes away if he resembled a doctor.

With his plan forming in his mind, Holmes stood and moved to the side of the room Watson had claimed as his own. There was no point really. Holmes entered the territory whenever he was so inclined anyway.

He traded his destroyed clothes for that of the distinguished doctor. Watson had a fine taste of clothes indeed. It wasn't the first time Holmes had "borrowed" something of Watson's without the doctor knowing.

When he had changed into a more presentable and professional attire, Holmes completed the look with a white doctor's coat that Watson saved only for special occasions.

He pocketed a few of the doctor's tools and bottled liquids – though he had no idea what most of them were used for – and left through the front door.

Outside, he ran his hand along the railing that lined the steps outside the building. When he pulled his hand away, he found that he had collected a fair amount of damp soot, grime and dust. He quickly wiped this formula into his hair, greasing down his wild mane and adding a refined, gray color to his hair to make him look older.

He wiped the grimy remains onto his – actually, Watson's – pants and hailed a carriage. An empty one approached him quickly and he entered, shouting out the address to the driver.

As the carriage rattled forward, Holmes inspected the interior of the carriage.

Dust. Good. He needed that.

Holmes wiped his fingers along the edge of the window, collecting the dust that resided there. Then he dabbed his gray fingers against his cheeks and forehead, darkening his wrinkles with the gray color to emphasize his aged appearance.

One last thing.

Holmes stopped the carriage and told the driver to wait. He quickly approached a small side shop and purchased a bag of sheep's wool, fresh off the animal. It was black.

He returned to the carriage and it rolled on.

Holmes brushed at the wool, clearing it of debris and giving it a more fluffy texture. Then, using a thick syrup he had swiped from Watson's desk, Holmes applied the substance to the area around his mouth and chin. Lastly, he stuck the wool onto his face and patted it into place: a beard.

Soon, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a rich building. Keeping his new face hidden, Holmes paid the driver and hurried towards the building where Mary lived.

And where, hopefully, Watson was alive.

Holmes straightened his coat, smoothed his vest, and made sure his beard and hair were in place. Then he knocked on the door.

As expected, a young servant girl answered.

"Good morning sir," she said politely with a slight curtsy. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," Holmes answered with a thick Russian accent. "I am 'ere to treat Mista Watson."

The girl looked Holmes up and down quizzically.

"I am 'is doctor," Holmes explained, raising his head proudly.

"Oh. Madam Mary did call a doctor a little while ago," the girl said uncomfortably.

"Yes. Za doctor is I," Holmes insisted. "I 'ave come as called."

The girl hesitated a moment more before opening the door wider and stepping aside for Holmes to pass.

He strode past her. "Zank you, young lady," he said.

"He's in the guest room on the second floor," the maid called after him.

Holmes walked purposefully towards the stairs and ascended steadily, one hand tucked in his pocket as he had seen Watson do times before.

On the second floor, he increased his pace as his heartbeat quickened.

The guest room. Where was the guest room?

Holmes slowed and inspected the hallway. Pictures hung on the wall and various shelves and desks lined the floor, decorated with priceless valuables or vases of blooming flowers. The doors were all made from polished redwood. A thick carpet trailed along the length of the hallway but one section was more worn than the rest. Footsteps had treaded there more often than the rest of the rooms.

Holmes started for the door in front of the worn carpet. If there was a wounded man in the house, most of the attention would be focused on him. Meaning people were constantly going in and out of the room.

Holmes opened the door and sure enough, there was Watson.

Only, it didn't look quite like the usual Watson Holmes was used to.

Holmes closed the door quietly behind him and padded carefully towards the bed where a man lay on his side, leaving his naked torso exposed to the cold air.

When Holmes was standing directly in front of the sleeping man, he stopped and peered down to examine the condition of his friend.

Watson was sleeping deeply on the bed, his head cushioned by a plush pillow while his lower body was covered with thick and elaborately decorated blankets of countless colors.

Watson looked so pale by comparison. A thin layer of sweat coated his brow. His breathing was slightly labored. Holmes had never seen him look so frail and vulnerable before.

Holmes moved to the other side of the bed to see the extent of the damage done to his dear friend.

Since Watson had been facing Holmes when the explosion occurred behind him, his back had been hit most. Dried blood clung to the erratic wounds that littered Watson back and back of the neck. There were surely other similar wounds elsewhere but Watson had taken actions to ensure that his torso was undisturbed.

Holmes could see why.

Imbedded in the back of Watson's neck, was a handful of debris. Stray pieces of metal and wood protruded from Watson's skin. A dark burn also stained his shoulder.

Watson must have been conscious at one time. Being a doctor, he would have known what to do. But, being in his current condition, he would have to wait for a real doctor to come and properly treat the wounds.

Holmes wanted to leave before that doctor showed up. He didn't want to get caught. Watson was in good hands now and he was alive. That was enough for Holmes. He didn't need to stay any longer.

Holmes turned and started to leave when a soft sound, like the rustling of sheets, resounded in his ears. He turned to face Watson.

The doctor's eyes fluttered open and after a moment of idly drifting around the room, locked onto Holmes.

"Ah, Doctor," Watson called in a weak, rustic voice. "Before you start removing the shrapnel, I recommended a small dose of Lidocaine followed by a quick clean up. Please check for any shattered bone and make sure the debris hasn't disturbed any major blood vessels. I believe most of the damage has been done to the hypodermis so be sure to be careful and make precise incisions."

Holmes turned to fully face Watson. "I honestly didn't understand a word of that."

"Holmes?!" Watson asked incredulously. He coughed abruptly from the sudden shock and strain, his whole body shaking.

Holmes was at his side in a second, gazing down at his friend worriedly as he fidgeted uneasily. He hated not being able to do anything.

Watson calmed, gasping loudly, and glared up at Holmes.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a low hiss.

"I came to check up on you," Holmes admitted with a nonchalant smirk that masked his worry.

"Why?" Watson sighed heavily.

Holmes shifted his gaze around the room in thought. "I guess, I just wanted to make sure you were alive."

Watson gave a start as his eyes widened slightly.

"It's just that," Holmes continued, pulling at his fake beard distractingly, "I wanted to see you for myself. After that explosion… I wasn't sure you survived."

Holmes finally met Watson's gaze, a small smile flickering on his lips. "I'm…" he coughed nervously. "I'm… glad… you did. Survive, I mean."

"Is that my coat?" Watson asked accusingly.

"What?" Holmes asked with confusion.

"It_ is_ my coat. Why are you wearing my coat?"

"It's my, uh, disguise."

"And what the hell is on you face?"

Holmes tugged on his beard again, disliking the way the conversation had turned. "Sheep's wool."

Watson let out a heavy sigh. "Or course it is. Why am I surprised?" He seemed to deflate back into the mattress, his anger dying down and decreasing the source of his energy.

His eyes fluttered closed but Holmes could tell by his clenched jaw that the man was still awake. The low mutters that escaped from between Watson's lips was also a subtle hint.

"Well," he said at last, his eyes opening to blearily focus on Holmes, "since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful."

Holmes blanched. "What?"

"Clean my wounds will you?" Watson asked.

"But… I'm a detective, not a doctor," Holmes protested.

"You don't have to be a doctor to clean up some blood," Watson argued weakly.

"But, what about that Lantern-pane stuff?"

"It's Lidocaine," Watson corrected. "And I don't need it."

"But you said to give you some."

"Holmes!" Watson shouted before having another fit of stifled coughs. Holmes snapped his mouth shut. Watson calmed and pierced Holmes with a firm gaze that sparked with hidden strength.

"Aren't you my doctor?" Watson asked painfully.

"No," Holmes said curtly.

"Good. I wouldn't trust you if you were," Watson said coyly. "But as my friend, I trust you with this task. Please. Just wipe down the wounds. I don't want them getting a risk of infection."

Holmes opened his mouth to protest but he closed it again and obediently moved to the other side of the bed. A basin of water and cloth had already been placed on the bedside table. Holmes picked up the clothed hesitantly and dipped it in the warm water.

"Just clean the blood away?" Holmes asked skeptically.

"Yes," came the tired reply.

Holmes inhaled deeply and carefully dabbed the damp cloth against Watson's back. Watson flinched once but relaxed again promptly. Holmes pressed a bit harder to clear all the blood. When he was done with one section of the back, he dipped the cloth back into the basin, rinsed it and rubbed it back against Watson's back.

Presently, Watson's back and neck were clear of all dried blood, leaving just the pale skin. The skin around the wounds were somewhat redder however, but Holmes decided that the real doctor could take care of that. As for the shrapnel still imbedded in Watson's flesh…

"What do I use to take out the pieces of debris?" Holmes asked casually.

"You can leave now," Watson replied hurriedly. "And don't touch anything on the way out. Including myself."

Holmes chuckled softly to himself. "But you said you trusted me as a friend."

"To do a normal job," Watson countered. "Removing shrapnel from a wound is a doctor's job and I'd rather – no – I'm telling you to leave it alone."

"All right," Holmes said sulkily.

He moved to stand before Watson once again, looking down at his friend and partner. Watson's eyes fluttered open and he looked up to meet Holmes' gaze.

"Go home, Holmes. I'm ok," he assured and then he closed his eyes again, a final sigh escaping from his lips as he sank into the bed.

Holmes knelt down before his friend and lightly placed his hand on Watson's cheek. Watson didn't respond.

"Just live ok?" Holmes whispered gently, taking in the fair features of his friend. "Don't you go dying on me. You're the only friend I've got and I don't want to lose that."

Holmes hesitated, his eyes searching Watson's face for any sort of response. When he was sure Watson was really asleep, he leaned in closer. "I don't want to lose you."

Footsteps sounded suddenly from outside the door. Holmes jumped back to his feet and hurried to the stand at Watson's back, pretending to intently examine the wound.

Mary stepped in and Holmes looked up.

"I must go," he said simply, reverting back to a Russian accent. "He can vest now."

Holmes offered his friend a last lingering glance before turning away and moving towards the door. Mary walked towards him and they passed with her recognizing him. She looked at Watson's neck and then at the receding back of Holmes.

"Isn't there more you can do?" she asked.

Holmes stopped at the doorway. He could tell by her tone of voice that she knew who he really was.

"I'm zorry," he said, keeping his back to her. "I 'ave other pazients."

He heard Mary move closer. "Solve this case," she urged with quiet vehemence.

And with that, Holmes left, his promise lingering unspoken in the air.

**I hope I can think of more Sherlock Homes fanfics. I really enjoy writing them. **

**Until next time,  
Hobey-Ho**


End file.
